


A Benevolent Arrangement of Things

by gabolange



Category: Leverage
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-03
Updated: 2015-01-03
Packaged: 2018-03-05 04:40:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,959
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3106304
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gabolange/pseuds/gabolange
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The story of how Maggie and Sophie became friends, of a sort.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Benevolent Arrangement of Things

**Author's Note:**

  * For [pellucid](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pellucid/gifts).



***  
After the kidnapping and the bomb and the kiss in the elevator and getting the bad guys—experiences Maggie will be taking in for a while—Nate stammers his way through inviting her to his hotel room. “I mean, not for, no. I thought we should, I don’t know, talk?”

Maggie gives him a skeptical look. “You want to talk?” There are many things she would like to do right now, some of them driven by adrenaline and the impulse that she gets when she’s around this new Nate and his crew to throw caution to the wind. She doesn’t think talking is one of them. “Since when do you want to talk?”

He almost smiles at that, not quite the sheepish look he used to get when he was late coming home from a job. This glance is more rueful, much more tired; the more time she spends with him, not shouting, not turned on from the sheer insanity of the events around her, the more she sees how exhausted he is.

“Nate, what’s going on?” She takes hold of him by the arms, still so familiar. “You can tell me.”

He shrugs, looking away. He doesn’t meet her gaze, but answers, which is more than Maggie expected from him. “They all know, anyway. Sophie left.” 

“Left?” Maggie draws back. “Were you—?”

“Dating?” Nate laughs sharply. “No.”

“But she left.” Maggie repeats herself, trying to see why he is so troubled, why this is the thing he would tell her after such a day, such a week.

“Yes.”

Maggie wants to ask why, but she knows Nate won’t explain, maybe can’t explain. Instead, she squeezes his arms and steps back, declining the invitation to come up, to have a drink or a talk or whatever he is offering or she might be giving. Instead she says, “I’m sorry” to Nate’s rueful look and resolves in that moment to better get to know the woman who has so unsettled him.

**

The phone rings, startling her awake. 3:01 am. Unknown caller. 

“Hello?” Maggie says, more alert than she should be. “Who is this? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing is _wrong_ ,” she hears, and it’s Sophie Devereaux with a tone in her voice that tells Maggie something is very wrong indeed. Words tumble out as Maggie tries to follow: “Nate is—I think Nate is fine, but he’s been shot and he’s been arrested and he’s going to jail and he’s a bloody idiot and—.”

“Nate’s been shot?”

There’s a long pause on the other end of the line. “Not the first time,” and she hears Sophie trying for wry and landing instead on a hysterical note that might be a choked back sob. 

“No,” Maggie says. “The second, I think.”

“Third,” Sophie says, more successful in seeking the lighter tone she’s been failing to hit. “Job last year. Anyway.” 

Nate hadn’t mentioned getting shot last year. Hadn’t mentioned that Sophie would know about the time he came home from a job a decade ago waving off Maggie’s concern about a neatly-sewn bullet wound. 

“Nate’s been shot and arrested.” Maggie repeats, because it’s early and the pertinent information would be helpful at this point, much more so than untangling a history she thought she knew. “Is he going to be okay?” And a question she’d never thought she’d ask, “Are you going to get him out?”

Sophie’s laugh is forced, and Maggie imagines her sitting at the team’s offices or in her apartment, conjures for a second Sophie sitting on Nate’s bed still wearing the clothes she had on hours before when everything happened, somehow getting through the important tasks. Being the one who realized that someone should call Maggie, even if there’s nothing for her to do but know.

Her response is much more measured now. “Yes to both,” Sophie says. Maggie hears her take a deep breath and Maggie sits fully up in bed, waiting for whatever comes next. “But—if you want to know what happened, we can meet for coffee? I don’t even know where you live, I’m sorry.”

Maggie peers at the clock. 3:07 am. “I’m still in LA,” Maggie says. “What time is it where you are?”

“Bloody hell,” Sophie says. “I’m sorry about that.”

“No,” Maggie says. “I’m glad you called. It’s just—coffee? Can we talk tomorrow? Or,” she catches herself, “later today?”

“Of course, of course,” Sophie says. She pauses for a second, and Maggie knows in the moment that Sophie hasn’t slept in hours, is wearing a haunted look not so far from the one she saw on Nate’s face only weeks ago. But she has her composure now, and Maggie wonders if those first moments will be the only honest words she’ll ever get from Sophie Devereaux.

“I’ll call you tomorrow,” Sophie says. The line goes dead. 

Maggie stares at the clock for four hours before her alarm goes off.

**

They have coffee in a little spot Maggie likes in Pasadena. It’s a bit of a haul from work, but if she’s going to have a drink with an international art thief who may or may not be her convict ex-husband’s girlfriend, Maggie isn’t going to do it anywhere near where anyone she knows could see.

Sophie is there when Maggie arrives, looking perfectly put together in summer linen trousers and a navy shirt. Sophie wears oversized sunglasses and her dark hair is done up in a chignon that looks effortless but probably took thirty minutes. Maggie knows she also looks lovely—extra effort for occasions like these, not that she has many occasions like these. But Sophie, just as Maggie remembers, is stunning.

Maggie approaches and Sophie rises, polite. “Maggie,” Sophie says, pulling the sunglasses from her face. “Thank you for meeting me.”

“Thank you for meeting me,” Maggie says, laughing a little. “I know this is a bit out of the way from Boston.”

Sophie shrugs as she sits back down. “You should know what’s going on.”

Maggie raises her eyebrows at that. “Should I?” She looks over her shoulders, one and then the other, perhaps a little theatrically. “Or should I leave that up to you and the crew?”

“Don’t worry, I’m not going to tell you anything incriminating,” Sophie says. “But—you should know why Nate’s in jail and why he got shot and probably a lot more than you do.” She smiles and waves a finger at the waiter, summoning him. “Lord knows, he’s not going to tell you.”

Maggie snorts. “No,” she says. Before she can continue, the waiter arrives. Sophie orders a double espresso and biscotti, Maggie a latte and croissant. 

The waiter departs. Before Maggie can ask any of her questions, Sophie says: “To make a very long story short, Nate turned himself in to protect us.” 

“Loyal to a fault,” Maggie says, but it’s not a criticism. It’s just Nate, glimmers of the man he used to be shining through, protecting to the end the people he loves. 

“Yes,” Sophie says, but her voice hitches a little bit. 

Maggie wants to ask more about what happened, what job went so sideways that Nate is in jail. But what comes out is, “He told me you left.” Maggie is surprised both at the words and that she sounds defensive. On Nate’s behalf, she supposes.

Sophie regards her across the table, dismisses the waiter without a glance as he slides their drinks between them. Maggie wants to interpret the calm that settles across Sophie’s face as surprise, but it just as easily could be frustration or sadness. “Did he?” Sophie says, stirring a cube of sugar into her espresso.

“Tell me about that,” Maggie says, taking a sip of her latte.

Sophie raises the little cup to her lips, blows across the foam. “I’m a grifter,” she says, but that doesn’t explain anything. Sophie seems to realize this, because she sets her cup down and says, “I can be anything to anyone at any time. And I needed to know what I wanted to be for myself and for the team.”

“And for Nate,” Maggie says.

Sophie laughs, and even to Maggie it sounds practiced. “No,” Sophie says. “That part is easy. It goes the other way. I don’t know what Nate wants from me. I don’t know if he knows.” 

Maggie picks her cup up, cradling it between her hands. It’s a warm day, but she likes the feel of the hot porcelain under her palms. “Always a Jesuit, that one,” she says, trying to remember Nate just out of seminary, without a clue in the world how to talk to a pretty girl. As if that is the only thing that stands between Nate and Sophie or between Nate and the rest of the world. 

They sit, sipping their coffee for a moment before Maggie settles her mug back down. “Maybe this is out of line,” she says, “but if we are going to be friends, or at least if you are going to be the one giving me news of these near misses, I feel like I should know. What is your story? You’re not just part of Nate’s crew. You knew him before.”

Maggie isn’t surprised at all at Sophie’s tale. She suspects as she listens that it is probably mostly true, if well-edited for the ex-wife’s ears. The more she thinks about it, though, the more she is shocked not at the story, but that Sophie shares anything at all.

Sophie starts: “Art thieves aren’t supposed to be friends with the insurance agents who are sent to capture them, but all good stories begin with exceptions to the rule.”

**

When Nate gets out, he calls Maggie himself. They chat amiably, as if he hasn’t been in prison for four months or if he and his team haven’t just staged a jailbreak from a high-security federal penitentiary. 

The phone rings again, no more than two minutes after she tells Nate, “I’m just glad you’re okay.”

It’s Sophie. “We got him out,” she says without preamble after Maggie picks up.

“I know,” Maggie says. “Nate called.”

“Oh, good,” Sophie responds and then silence hangs between them. It is Sophie who finds her voice first. “You know we won’t be in contact much, right?” Sophie says. “Things are going to be crazy and I don’t want you to worry.”

“Well, you’re not doing a very good job.” Maggie is trying for irony but lands closer to frustration, even though she shouldn’t worry, doesn’t when she’s not thinking too hard about the lives Sophie and Nate and the team lead.

Sophie laughs. “I’m not, I suppose. I’ll see what I can do about that.”

**

Over the next year, Sophie sends Maggie texts. _Amazing shoes!_ with a picture of a new pair of Louboutins that must be at least four inches high. And, _Can you explain Southern food?_. And, _Merry Christmas_. 

Maggie tries to return the favor, sending emails with articles about newly authenticated artwork and the occasional fashion question. Sophie once responds about a painting, _That’s not original—check again_ and Maggie does. 

There is a news story about an election in a country Maggie hasn’t heard of, and there is Sophie’s face on her television, the assassinated fiancé of San Lorenzo’s new president. She texts Sophie, though if Sophie is dead she won’t respond, but Maggie tries anyway: _What is going on? Are you okay?_

And of course she is and of course it was just a con, a con to save a country, and Maggie has mostly put it together by the time the phone lights up. _Democracy!_ Sophie’s text reads.

Maggie almost throws the phone across the room.

**

They have a glass of wine in New York. Maggie is there to consult at the Guggenheim and Sophie waves her hands and makes excuses about the best shopping in the country. “Didn’t have time to fly to Paris this weekend,” Sophie says. 

Maggie’s not sure if there’s a job that requires one of Sophie’s contacts in the city, or if they’re between engagements and she just wanted a break. Sophie doesn’t let her inquire.

“But how are you?” Sophie asks, swirling her glass. 

“Oh, you know curators,” Maggie says by way of skipping the details . “Would you mind looking at this another time, Miss Collins? I’m just not sure.” She sips her wine. “It’s not his job to be sure, it’s mine. It’s his job to trust me!”

Sophie laughs. “All that artwork laid out, just waiting to be–.”

“Hung?” Maggie interrupts, admonishing and laughing at the same time. She picks at the bar nuts in front of them.

“Well, that too,” Sophie says, smiling before growing more serious. “I worked in collections for a couple of months, years ago. I enjoyed the process of understanding which pieces should be placed together and why.” She shakes her head, brushing off the memory. “Hated the character, but the work was fascinating.”

“All for a con?”

“Yes, I suppose,” Sophie says, considering. “But, you have to understand—I got into art because I love art. Parker stole art, but always for the love of stealing. I did it because I just loved those pieces.” She takes another sip of her wine. “And the game. Always the game. But also the art.”

Maggie looks Sophie over. It’s been nearly two years since they’ve seen each other in person, and Maggie takes in the woman before her, turned out for the occasion as always. If Maggie had to guess, she would say she’s caught Sophie at a truly relaxed moment.

“I got into verification because I wasn’t good enough to paint,” Maggie says, thinking back. “I mean, I’m decent, but I was never going to make a living at it. I figured this way, I could be around beautiful things and still earn a paycheck.”

“A girl’s gotta eat, right?” Sophie says.

“Food and art,” Maggie says, and she lifts her glass and clinks it against Sophie’s as they laugh.

“Exactly,” Sophie says, setting her glass down and reaching for the wine list. She thumbs through it and says, almost to the paper, “You should know that Nate and I are seeing each other.”

“Oh, finally,” Maggie says. Sophie’s head comes up in surprise and Maggie is a little proud that she caught her companion off guard. “No, really,” Maggie says. “I was wondering when you’d get it together.” 

Sophie snorts. “Not sure we’re all that together,” she says. “But we’re sorting it out.”

Maggie raises an eyebrow. “Good,” she says. “I mean it—you both deserve to be happy, if this will make you happy.”

Sophie shrugs a little, takes a breath. “Thank you,” she says. “That’s generous of you.”

“I’ve had a lot of therapy,” Maggie says, putting a finger out to snag the wine list. “Letting go was year one.” She glances at the list, thinking about another bottle and maybe a snack.

“And now?” Sophie asks, leaning over the table so they can both peruse their choices. “Oh, that’s nice,” she says, her finger landing on a $350 bottle of Jayer-Gilles 2004 Echezeaux Grand Cru. Maggie raises an eyebrow and Sophie brushes her off. “I got it.”

“Okay,” Maggie says, setting the list down. “Now he’s talking a lot about looking to the future and making new discoveries.”

“Which means what?” Sophie asks.

Maggie frowns a little. “I think he wants me to date more.”

Sophie laughs. “Nothing wrong with that.”

Maggie shakes her head. “No, not at all—and I will tell you all about that, actually, since I keep meeting curators.” She smiles. “I think it also means that I’m outgrowing therapy, if the advice is to date and go to the opera and take up shuffleboard.”

“Please don’t take up shuffleboard,” Sophie says, raising an arm to summon the waiter.

“No,” Maggie says. “I think I’ll stick with art and food!”

“And wine,” Sophie replies before turning away to give their order. And wine. The wine is very good.

**

Maggie doesn’t hear from them often. Sophie texts sometimes, _I hate Ohio!_ , and Nate sends emails and makes the occasional call, just touching base, we’re fine, the weather’s good. Maggie learns about Jimmy Ford’s death from her former sister-in-law.

She wants to be frustrated, but knows that they’re all up to their ears in arrangements and plans and revenge. She is an afterthought, exactly where she is supposed to be—but then the phone lights up. _Want to be a grifter for a day? I need a favor_.

She can’t say no to that. _Sounds like fun_ , Maggie replies. 

And even though she knows what the goal is, even though she’s participating in something criminal, it is fun. Playing someone else for a worthy cause is a thrill, and she imagines that this is how Sophie feels all the time, caught up in the moment. Maggie thinks it would be exhausting.

She gets back to LA and turns on the television. The nightly news blares coverage of Dubenich and Latimer’s deaths: “Fell after a struggle” and “Involvement of others still under investigation.” Maggie mutes the drone.

 _You guys okay?_ she texts Sophie.

It’s not an immediate response, but when it comes it is short and all that Maggie needs to know. 

_Yes_ , Sophie writes.

Maggie will reach out again, in a week or a month or two to find out about the weather wherever they land, to chat about shoes and art and make sure they’re okay, really okay. But today, Maggie turns off the television and silences her phone and sits for a minute before getting up to pour herself a drink.

With friends like these and fun like today’s, she thinks she more than deserves it. 

***


End file.
